The Devil's Attendant
by Glaux Bryonia
Summary: What would have happened if the 14th never existed the way we know him? Surely things would have been different then. The question is, how much would have changed? AU
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So… my first D gray-man fic. Hope you'll enjoy. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own D gray-man. **

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Cold.

Numb.

White surrounded him.

The steady trickle of tears had long since stopped yet the pain hadn't. It kept seeping through him with the slow deadliness of a hunting predator.

God, it hurt.

At first the pain helped him keep himself distracted from the memories, but as the stars slowly made their way over the night sky the searing heat had diminished and been replaced with a dull throb, allowing exhaustion to slowly lull him to sleep. A single snowflake landed on the damaged tissue that covered the left side of his face, sending a small but sharp pinprick of pain into his skull.

More snow drifted down, landing on his hair and his clothes, on his legs stretched out in front of him. A few landed on his face and as the weather worsened the icy needles steadily started to drag old instincts to the surface.

For the first time in hours he moved, a simple shift of his head. The small movement send tendrils of hot pain through his head but that was okay. It helped him wake up. It helped him become a bit more aware. Aware of the fact that he was dying.

Again he shifted, his joints feeling like the rusty hinges of a door that hadn't been opened in years. Stiff and sluggish. He groaned painfully as his frozen muscles screamed at him for making them move. He let out a dry sob, having no tears left to cry nor the energy to shed them.

_Don't stop. Keep walking._

Walking… yeah, he had to get up and walk… A voice in the back of his head kept nagging about something. Something weird with his body.

He furrowed his brows and white hot pain jolted him further towards awareness. That was good. That was important. He repeated the action a few times, ignoring the warm droplets rolling down his skin through the cracks of dried blood. More stinging caused by the warmth against his freezing skin.

Finally his vision cleared a bit, enough for him to look down at his hands. His hands covered with the gloves Mana bought for him.

_Mana…_

But no, Mana wasn't important right now. Mana couldn't help him anyway. Anymore. Never…

_Never…_

With a hoarse cry he jerked his head to the side and welcomed the pain that came in two harsh waves from his face and his body as he fell to the side into the snow. With blurry eyes he looked down at himself and slowly realization started to seep in. Following close behind came a rising feeling of dread.

He wasn't shivering.

A memory flashed before his eyes. A child in an alley, lying completely still, eyes staring. An other child had tried to make the kid stand up, tried to drag her to away to somewhere warm. She hadn't reacted despite the boy's pleading and had slowly fallen asleep, never to wake up again.

_Hypothermia_. A silent shadow that plagued the streets at night during the winter. The pale demon all homeless people knew and feared, subtly announcing it's presence as your breath became visible. An unseen ghost that was as deadly as a festering stab wound in your gut…

In the end it was panic that drove him to get up and try to find shelter. Deep mindless panic, a primal survival instinct, enough to get him moving but on it's own too weak to drive the sluggish stiffness from his heavy limbs. It would do.

He stumbled and fell, fought to get up again, and in a daze forced his unsteady feet to carry him further to the city. Away from the graveyard and away from that he didn't want to remember.

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Later on he couldn't remember how he managed to reach the city, nor how he ended up in that alley. What he did remember, however, was the old vagabond with his worn out blankets and his pitifully small fire.

Most people would say the man was as poor as could be, but for someone living on the streets he might as well be as rich as a king. He had something very few of the homeless could get their hands on during the winter: heat. When snow and ice piled up in the streets, it became as valuable as food, and often proved itself to be even harder to find. In the frozen world, the rules where simple. Stay warm and you live. Don't and you die. If you've got to choose between a meal and a warm spot go for the warm spot. Hunger is easier to survive than cold.

Simple rules. Simple and deadly. Those who defied them gambled their lives. Those who defied them died more often than not. He knew them and learned from experience - both his own and from others - to do everything to obey them.

Another rule was not to pick fights if you're not sure you'll win, unless you've got no other choice.

He was cold and freezing and knowing his luck hypothermia had already nestled itself in his body. He had no other choice.

The old man noticed his presence and probably realized his predicament, because he got up and carefully laid the blankets aside before stepping away from the fire. In his hand he held a rusty old pipe.

For a moment they just gazed at each other, both trying to gauge the other. Then the old vagabond spoke, his voice creaky and raspy and laced with deep wet coughs. "Don' force me kiddo. I 'now what yer here for and yer ain' gettin' it. Go die somewhere else."

The one referred to as 'kiddo' simply stared back with one dull gray eye, the other one covered with too much dried blood to open.

In the end it was him that made the first move. A mindless shuffling towards the tantalizing glow of the fire, completely disregarding the looming shadow in front of him.

The old man frowned and then shrugged. These kind of things always happened during the winter. He raised his pipe and hit the kid in the shoulder, causing the boy's feet to slip and landing him in the snow. The blow hadn't been very hard, just a warning. The next blow, however, would be serious. The boy knew this and had to find a way to fight back or leave.

He knew he couldn't leave.

Numbly, he ran his frozen fingers through the snow in search for a weapon. In the end he thought he found something but even if he hadn't it wouldn't have mattered for long. He got only one chance. He blinked slowly up at the old man. The vagabond had come closer and leaned over him, he noticed detached.

"Oh, I see. Cold got a hold of yer, didn' it?"

A sigh.

"I'm sorry kiddo, yer choose the wron' place to go to. I ain' gonna help ye but I'll spare ye some sufferin', 'kay?"

Coughing.

"Go'bye, kiddo."

The glint of steel in the darkness kicked old reflexes awake and suddenly his hand wasn't that cold anymore. Something warm soaked his glove, tainting it a dark color. Above him the old man coughed again and he felt warm rain upon his face. Then the man was no longer blocking the light of the fire. A small part of him that was still capable of feeling was grateful as he made his way to the warmth as fast as he could.

The blankets were old and smelled, but they were also big still contained the heat of the old man's body. Carefully he wrapped them around himself and sat down near the fire, the closest he could get without accidentally burning something.

He fell asleep just as he started to shiver.

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The next few days he spend in a daze, barely aware of what he was doing as his body went through the motions that once had been his daily routine. The former habits came to him as old friends, resuming their activities as if they had never left.

'Explore the area.'

'Search through all the stuff in the alley.'

'Rekindle the fire.'

'Melt some snow and wash your wounds. Wrap them with the cleanest clothes you can find.'

'Search the old mans clothes. Take the jacket and spare garments to cover up yours which are to fancy.'

'Eat what little food the man owned.'

'Take everything useful.'

'Hide what you don't want to be found, like the body.'

'Leave.'

He did exactly as they told him.

A part of him that wasn't crippled by grief or pain remembered that the streets offered very few save camping places and thus he took to the roofs, dragging his precious cargo of blankets, small tools and spare clothes with him. The climbing was exhausting and would have probably meant his death if it wasn't for his experience as both a street rat and a circus artist. Still, the roofs covered with snow and ice were proving to be quite a challenge. He welcomed it, glad he had something to distract himself with.

_Sunrise. _

It became easier to gauge which roof was safe to walk on.

The city awakened and people flooded the streets. He had to be careful so he wouldn't be noticed.

Finally: a good spot, relatively secluded and a lot of hiding places. 'Hide your stuff but stay close enough to keep an eye on it.'

'Observe the people, the shops. Try to find the best chances to earn money, to pickpocket, to snag something edible. Try to get to know the rules of the city, of the people living there and watch out for gangs. Try to figure out their territories, which streets belong to who and which gang is the most dangerous. And most important: which area's are no man's land. Those are the most dangerous of all. There, no one can consider himself safe.'

So many things he needed to know. Ignorance was a luxury he couldn't afford.

_Noon. _

'Scavenge for food.'

'Try to earn money.'

_Evening. _

'When the sun begins to set get your stuff and go somewhere safe. Avoid everyone who is out as soon as darkness creeps through the streets. They cannot be trusted.'

'Try to sleep, but always keep an eye out for danger. Be alert and ready to bolt at any time. You don't want them to get you.'

'Leave and find a new place first thing in the morning.'

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Every day the same schedule. Something to hold on to. Boring. Predictable. Both were good. He didn't need to think that way. Not about the part of him that was still weeping in a corner of his head. Not about the part that hadn't stopped screaming at himself. Not about the quiet part who's presence lay like a heavy cloak over his mind. Not about anything. Just food, shelter and those thugs around the corner.

He didn't know how long he lived like that. A week? Maybe two? It didn't matter. The constant vigilance, combined with the cold, was exhausting. Exhaustion meant sleep. Sleep without dreams. It meant a slow mind and little room for feelings. Exhaustion was bliss.

The left side of his face still hurt. Better keep it covered. Pain was no problem.

A tiny part of his schedule changed as he found himself a permanent hiding place. That was okay, he could get jobs to make up for it.

The place itself was a good spot where two taller buildings leaned against a smaller one, creating a relatively secluded and protected area where the three met. The overhanging roofs of the bigger buildings would protect him from rain and snow, and the walls would keep the wind at bay. It couldn't be seen from the streets and there were no windows looking out on it. He was sure he would be save there, cause no one with a brain in his head would risk his neck climbing the treacherous slopes unless they had some experience in that area. He himself didn't care about the danger.

But in the end it wasn't the protection the place offered that convinced his dazed mind to stay. It was the warmth. The smaller building housed a blacksmith and a glassblower, and the heat of their ovens seeped through the roof where he had decided to make his home, warming the area and making it free of ice and snow.

Now the biggest problem would be to keep his hideout secret. People tended to get angry when they discovered a homeless orphan on their roof, often mistaking them for burglars. His best bet was to use the gutters since they were free of snow thanks to the ovens, enabling him to go back and forth without leaving footprints. On the downside they would get very slippery overnight as the water running through them froze. It was a dangerous game he would be playing, but as long as he was careful he should be able to manage.

The next day he made sure to fill the spare time with something else.

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The days turned to weeks and the weeks became months and the only reason he detected the passing of time was the snow that changed from dry, gently whirling flakes into ice cold, wet particles that piled up in heaps of dirty, half-molten slush.

As he learned to know the city itself and his daily routine no longer demanded his full attention, he slowly learned to let go of his irrational fear of simple thoughts. Slowly but surely, he could allow himself to think about yesterday. And last week. And that kind woman from the bakery that sometimes would deliberately look away when he stole a piece of bread.

Slowly he could let his lifeless doll-like state slip a bit.

Slowly he could allow himself to feel the tiniest hint of emotions again. Displeasure as he went to sleep with hunger gnawing at his stomach. Satisfaction when he managed to successfully relieve a drunken rich guy of his purse. But never more than that.

Not once did he look at the memories from before he found his home on the roofs, nor did he dare to speak politely or take of the ragged clothes that had belonged to the old man, lest he saw the checkered pattern of the clothes underneath. Anything that might remind him of his old life was quickly avoided or shoved into the deepest, darkest abyss of his mind.

In the end his recovery didn't last, for it was then, when he finally found the courage to explore the less threatening parts of his mind, that his fragile world shattered.

Just as the sun announced its presence with a pale glow in the east did he run into someone. The next moment he heard a few loud bangs and felt something hot grazing his cheek. A heartbeat later all that remained were a pile of smoldering metal and a few bullet holes the size of fists in the wall behind him.

Those, and an enormous, eerily familiar, white claw where his left arm used to be. The same claw that had killed Mana.

At that moment he screamed and screamed and screamed, not even stopping as the claw disappeared and his left arm returned. He kept screaming even when doors banged open and people yelled at him to be quiet.

He screamed until the world went black.

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He woke up with a head full of suffocating wool and an equally fuzzy mind, lying in a foreign room without the slightest idea where he was or how he came to be there. Last thing he remembered was blacking out in some dead-end street filled with garbage, after…

… After…

He didn't know how long he'd been staring at the ceiling when someone finally noticed he was awake. Distantly he realized that someone was yelling and other people showed up in response.

Someone touched his shoulder. Then they forced him to sit up. They shook him, lightly slapped his cheek, pinched him, anything to get him to react. He didn't.

His eyes saw but he did not. He heard them calling to him, but no words came through. In his head there was only room for one single thought, one that had been running circles in his head like a trapped rat.

_It came back._

The claw that killed Mana had come back. The monster-claw that seemed to live in his left arm _came back_.

And it had killed an other person.

He shivered and a tiny sound escaped him, sending the nameless people around him into a frenzy. Whether it had been a whimper or a choked sob he didn't know. His eyes stung. He let them.

Numbness coursed through him.

He knew he had killed someone.

_Again_.

Just like the old man in the alley.

_Just like Mana._

_Mana__…_

He cried. Deep, painful sobs that wrecked his small frame and made his throat feel raw and sore. It took days before he started functioning again. By then the police no longer had the heart to question him.

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It had been shortly after he'd left the police station, when he finally discovered someone had removed the bandage around his left eye. The whole time, ever since his first night in this city, he had kept his wounded eye covered, only taking it of for short periods of time to wash it a bit. After a few weeks he'd been able to see through it again, but he had become so used to the constant pain he hadn't noticed when it slowly dimmed and disappeared, so he'd kept wearing the bandage.

But now, for the first time he was using it again. The wonder of touching and moving it without pain managed to temporarily drive away the depression the return of the monster-arm had wrought upon him. The city, seen with both eyes, seemed to be a different city than he remembered.

And now he was actually paying attention to his surroundings, he also noticed the way people were staring at his face.

Feeling slightly curious he walked to a window and peered at his reflection. What he saw shocked him, and he immediately understood the reaction of the people. Without his hood on he finally noticed his hair - once a rusty brown - had become an unsettling ghostly white. That, and the angry red scar that ran over his eye and cheek, way too intricate and clean to be caused by accident.

He shuffled closer, eyes wide with disbelief. Hesitantly he wiped the pale strands from his forehead, almost afraid to see the rest of the scar.

He gasped when he saw the blood red pentacle above his brow. The shape, combined with the blood red color, made it eerie and menacing.

It was a scar fit for a demon.

His fist smashed through the window, shattering the disturbing image that was his reflection.

He ran.

He ran, not because the owner of the broken window was chasing him, but to get away from the sight of his own face. His face that was both white and red, just like his arm.

His demon arm.

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That night the tears refused to stop flowing as he curled up beneath his blankets and heavy sobs nearly choked him. Inside he was drowning in the pain that radiated from his heart, and the memories he'd tried to forget kept assaulting him without rest.

-_"__You turned me into a Demon!__"__-_

His whole body trembled in silent agony.

-_"__Curse you, Allen, curse you! CURSE YOU!__"__-_

He bit down on his left arm in an attempt to muffle his miserable wails. _I__'__m sorry Mana__…_

_-__"__You turned me into a Demon!__"__-_

He hadn't meant to do that! He'd just wanted his father back. He hadn't meant to…

_I__'__m sorry._

His breath came in hiccupping gasps, grating inside his throat and making it feel as if it was bleeding. _Please Mana, I__'__m sorry!_

He hadn't meant to, but Mana had punished him anyway. Exactly like he deserved.

_I__'__m sorry__…_

He had punished Allen by making him a demon too.

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**A/N: For those who are wondering: I used the word ****'****Demon****'**** instead of ****'****Akuma****'**** because I****'****ve always found it a bit odd that random citizens know the Japanese word. Instead the word ****'****Akuma****'**** will only be used by insiders (like members of the Black Order and the Earl and his helpers). Though, honestly speaking, I kind of needed it to be ****'****Demon****'**** for the sake of Allen****'****s breakdown just now. But the other argument still stands.**

**That said: FEEDBACK IS MORE THAN WELCOME! So please tell me what you thought.**


	2. Chapter 2

**An unusually quick update for my standards, I hope it's to your liking. At this moment the inspiration is flowing quite strongly, though there's no way to tell when it'll dry up or I'll be stuck doing homework. Better make the most of it for now. Enjoy!**

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Already two days had passed and the third day was about to start. He woke up with the sun glaring in his aching eyes, which were painfully swollen from both sleep and spending too much time wallowing in misery. Unlike yesterday he didn't bother reaching for the worn out bag next to him. He already knew he was out of food.

He moved and his head felt like someone covered the inside of his skull with needles and then started pounding them in with a sledgehammer. Bloody Hell, it hurt! In an attempt to lessen the pain he took a sip of water, whimpering pitifully as the light pressure of the old bottle reopened the bloody cracks on his dry lips. Another sip and he was out of water as well.

He let his hand fall to the side and the bottle thudded dully upon the roof. Who cared if anyone heard him? He shielded his sensitive eyes with his arms.

Blearily he stared at the overhanging roof; at the old remains of cobwebs, the moldy supporting beams, and the blotted undefined color of the drainage. He felt like crying again but he just didn't have the energy for it. And it would make him feel like chopping off his head even more. Though that might be a good idea anyway.

He groaned weakly. Besides his head killing him it was as if his throat and nose decided to make this morning Hell too. They felt like they were clotted with thick slime that clogged his airways and filled every little cavity with a aching pressure. He could barely breathe.

He sniffed in a pitiful attempt to clear his airways a bit, but instead a clump of slime shot loose and cut of the last of his breathing. Immediately panic seized him and he started coughing and gasping; spluttering as his struggles only released more of the suffocating stuff. He almost vomited from the force his body used to get air again and tears ran down his face in pain and terror. Finally, after a particularly nasty series of coughs a small airway opened up and he could draw the tiniest bit of air again. It was enough for him to regain a shred of control over his trembling lungs. in the end he could breathe semi-normal again, but his throat felt incredibly raw and painful, as if he had reopened a wound by roughly pulling off the crust.

He sobbed dryly. It hurt so much. His head. His throat. His heart. Everything.

_Just let me die…_

But no. That would of course be too easy. And when had his life ever been easy? Easy was something Fate definitely begrudged him.

_Well, guess it was easier when Mana-_

No.

No. No. No. Not going there. No way. That would only hurt more.

His eyes started to sting as if someone jammed a needle in his tear ducts. He laughed miserably. _Too late._

And then all thoughts faded when darkness dragged him under.

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_He was running as fast as his legs could carry him and tears of fright blurred his already limited vision. Dark spots danced before his eyes and his breath was barely more than a thin, desperate wail in his throat. _

_Air… he needed air…_

_His heart beat like a mad drum in his chest and every pulse felt like a hammer slamming into his ribcage from the inside, and suddenly he was no longer running away. Instead he was running towards a painfully familiar silhouette, colorful against the gray ruins of a nameless city._

_He tried to scream, to call, anything to make the person stop, to please wait for him… but he couldn't and it was getting dark… _

_The world shifted and turned, gray and black curling and stretching around each other, and he was falling, falling further and further down into the darkness; further and further away from that painfully clear figure above him._

_He stretched out his arm, pleading for it to reach the light, reaching for the white face above. "PLEASE…!"_

_Looking over the edge of the black hole Mana shook his head, his painted face twisted in incredible sadness. _

"_I told you to never stop walking, Allen…"_

He flew upright with a hoarse cry, only to have his body fail him and he collapsed, coughing violently. During the short time he'd been asleep his condition had worsened. His eyes were swollen and had become surrounded with a flaky crust, and he could taste the inflammation in the little wounds on his lips. The world spun and the roof felt unsteady, as if it was one of the trampolines he had once played on with Mana.

He shivered and then started to sweat, as if an ice cold wind had caressed his spine, before he felt as if he'd been sitting in a too warm bath for too long a time. He was pretty sure he was running a fever.

He coughed and couldn't bring himself to care. It was better if he died here. Would probably hurt less. Murderers and demons were better off dead.

_- "I told you to never stop walking…" -_

His head snapped up, and for a split second he saw Mana. A disbelieving smile spread over his face. Then the image was gone, leaving only cold disappointment.

Really, he should have known.

Angry at himself he let his head thud on the roof, ignoring the fact it hampered his breathing, which was already difficult enough as it was.

_Never stop walking._

It was almost nostalgic. 'Don't stop, keep walking' had been Mana's favorite phrase. Not strange that he spoke similar words in his dream, the last he would ever hear from him.

His eyes widened.

Never stop walking. Those were Mana's last words right? Even if they were said in a dream. Weren't you supposed to honor the last wish of a dead person? And 'never stop walking' could be counted as a wish…

His let out a miserable wail. Had Mana come here to tell him that? Even after he killed him? He made a choking sound, something between a cough and a sob. His heart felt as if it was shredding itself, and at the same time it felt lighter than before.

_Mana…_

Struggling against the weakness in his limbs he got up and carefully made his way to the edge of the roof. Determination intensified the feverish glow of his face as he started to climb down. If Mana wanted him to live with his curse then he would try his hardest. No more crying or self pity. No more laying down and wishing for death. He would live to fulfill Mana's last wish.

His fingers slipped and he fell the last few feet, landing in a heap on the ground when his legs gave out under the sudden weight. With a grunt he pulled himself up and walked away, ignoring the swaying motions of the world around him.

He would live even if it meant becoming a full fledged demon. He owed Mana at least that much.

_- "Never stop walking" -_

The words slurred as they left his mouth, hindered by his wheezing breath. "I won't, Mana."

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It cost him a long time and a lot of hardship, but in the end he did manage to recover from his fever. Thanks to Mana he had been just in time to get himself into motion. A few hours later and he had the dark suspicion it would have been too late to do anything about it. The infection would have settled too deep. Great, just another thing he owed the old clown for.

Luckily the weather had taken a turn for the better. It was warmer outside and though rain was dangerous, it wasn't nearly as deadly as snow or ice. He was really grateful for the overhanging roof at his little hideout, because otherwise he wouldn't have had a snowball's chance in hell to get his clothes dry; well, relatively dry considering the season. And he really would rather not have to deal with pneumonia, seeing how he hadn't fully recovered from his cold yet. Actually, it was a miracle he hadn't caught pneumonia back then, cause seriously, it should have jumped him like a cat would a mouse with a broken leg.

A sudden gust of wind nearly pulled his hood off, and he almost dropped the barrel he'd been holding to fix it. He tried his best to keep his demonic features hidden, but especially the hair proved to be a challenge. The scar he kept covered with a makeshift bandage and till now it hadn't been warm enough for people to look weirdly at his gloves. He suspected that would soon change. Maybe he could bandage his hand too? Or maybe he should try to find some thinner gloves…

His thoughts were interrupted by the yelling of the man that had hired him for this little job. The heavily muscled male was venting his frustrations on one of the other boys for dropping his precious cargo. Allen hurried to bring the barrel to the guy at the ship, glad that the man had been too distracted to notice his slacking. If he had he would have been replaced in an instant, without even getting his money.

He winched as a loud slap of skin colliding with skin echoed from behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed that the man had become physical. He turned away and listened to the big guy in front of him, who was telling him what to get next. As he ran to the heavy bales of silk he heard several more slaps, followed by painful sounding thuds. Clearly the contents of that box had been valuable for the man to start kicking. Or maybe he just enjoyed beating street rats, cause really, who would care to interfere? And it was not like no one would want to take his place either. Many were willing to risk a few beatings to get their hands on some money.

Just like him.

As he returned to the ship he saw to his astonishment that someone _did_ care, cause there was a person in a long black coat standing over the clumsy boy, stopping the man for landing another hit. He stared until he realized that the stranger had let the aggressive man go, an then he hurried to get his load delivered before the guy would decide to turn on him instead. Just in time it seemed. He could feel those mean eyes digging themselves in his back.

He shivered and for the rest of the day he concentrated completely on his work. He had the feeling that he wouldn't get off the hook a third time and the man was agitated enough to beat him to a pulp if he annoyed him. The black-clad stranger had ensured that.

Evening was already well on its way when they finally finished and received their pay. Allen looked sadly at the little pile of coins, knowing it wouldn't keep him alive for long. Especially since his appetite had increased significantly after getting used to getting fed on a daily basis with Mana. Really though, it should have been easier getting used to hunger again than it was proving to be…

Knowing complaining wouldn't get him anywhere except in trouble, he pocketed his earnings with a sigh and left. He never realized that all that time, the dark stranger had been watching him from behind the window of a pub.

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It was quite pathetic for a seasoned waif like him not to notice he was being followed. Seriously, all the warning bells should have been screaming at him, _but no_, instead he only felt a small uncomfortable tingle in the back of his neck, which was easily overlooked because those kind of things always happened when someone was staring unfriendly at him. And _that _happened way too often to put him on high alert anymore.

And now he could only curse himself for not noticing, for he was cornered by the man dressed in black, in a shady secluded alley, with nothing in his hand to defend himself with, while the guy in question had a quite menacing looking dagger in his hand. Sheathed, but still.

He gritted his teeth and prepared for the worst. "Get the hell away from me." He growled.

For a moment the man looked surprised, almost as if he had expected him to attack right away, before he put his dagger away and raised his hands, indicating peaceful intentions.

Allen wasn't falling for it. That gesture was abused way too often to open a gap in a person's defense. Most common tactic for gangs that were out for blood.

Quickly he reached for his own dagger, which was nothing more than a long piece of broken glass with some rope around it as handle. He drew it at the same time the man started speaking.

"Are you the boy that the police found in an alley after a strange explosion, approximately a month ago?"

The white haired child narrowed his eyes. "What would make you think that?"

"You match the description. I can't see it very well because of your hood, but your hair is white isn't it? Instead of some very pale blond most people probably mistake it for." The man tilted his head, dark blue eyes regarding him with reserved curiosity. "I that bandage across your eye meant to hide your scar? Clever. Though the underside of it is still visible. I really got to give it to you, you've managed to disguise yourself quite effectively. So effectively no one I asked remembered you the way the police described you. I've been looking on my own for more than two weeks."

"Why the hell would you look for _me_?" Allen asked, giving the stranger a incredulous look. He really was getting a bad feeling about this. A well dressed person like this looking for some nameless brat of the streets? _Without _some ulterior motive? Not bloody likely. And ulterior motives just _screamed_ trouble.

"I want to talk."

The boy snorted, hiding his nervousness with false bravado. "About what? That incident? Hate to break it to you, but if you believed I could tell you something then you've wasted your time. I don't know anything."

"You don't have to know anything, I just want to hear what you saw. If you tell me then I might be able to figure out what was going on."

Allen glared. "I don't care what it was, as long as it stays far away from me. Now leave."

The man sighed tiredly. Hah, as if he had the freaking right to feel tired! Fucker didn't look like he had to work that often. "I'll pay you for your answers."

Allen hesitated. On one hand really wanted to leave. Anything that might have to do even the tiniest bit he wanted to avoid, and the fact that the man had some obscure reason to seek him out worried him.

The incident had been weird and terrifying, but also small, and had no consequences for anyone but him and maybe some family of the dead guy. Granted, his memory hadn't been he best at that time, but he was pretty sure his arm had left that person as a pile of metallic rubble. Without a corpse there couldn't have been evidence of murder, right? If they had, the police definitely wouldn't have left him off the hook without questioning…

On the other hand, if the man truly suspected him of something bad wouldn't he be more forceful? Cause in that case a bit of extra money would be great.

Carefully he observed the guy, who was still waiting patiently for his answer. His appearance wasn't anything special. Light colored hair - probably blonde, but it was hard to tell now it was getting dark - and light skin. Average height and build, which basically meant he was at least two times as heavy as Allen; maybe three. Black clothes of high quality covered his form. Nothing extraordinary, just tasteful and durable. Perfect for comfortable traveling. It looked a bit like an uniform with that silvery insignia on his left breast…

Grey eyes squinted to get a clearer view. The insignia looked a bit like a star or a flower, though not exactly. More like-

His eyes widened, pupils dilating in fear. It was a cross. A very _official_ looking cross. This stranger was a member of the church! He could think of only _one_ reason why the church would send someone after him, and it wasn't pleasant.

He bolted.

He had only gotten a few meters away when a strong grip around his wrist jerked him back. In less than a second the older man had him pinned, leaving the white haired boy fruitlessly struggling with his right arm uncomfortably twisted behind his back.

"Whoa! Calm down, kid! I won't hurt you, I just want to speak with you!"

Allen forced himself to quit fighting, despite the terror poisoning his blood. Now he couldn't get away that easily he would need every ounce of calm he had to find an other way to escape.

"Why did you run?" The tone was almost concerned, with an odd undertone of relief. Not that Allen paid attention to it since he was distracted by his fear, which had increased when he realized just how close the man was standing. And how helpless he was right now.

Finally he managed to spit out an answer. "You're from the church."

"So?" Confusion resounded in that single word.

Allen gritted his teeth. "I don't trust the church."

"… Ah." Allen hated how understanding the stranger sounded and prayed that the guy had drawn the wrong conclusion. If not then he was screwed.

"It's okay, I swear I won't harm you."

The boy scoffed. "As if I would believe that!"

A sigh. "Really, child, I understand it's difficult but please at least give me the benefit of doubt. I don't know what happened to you to make you this wary but I swear on everything I hold dear, I hold no ill intentions towards you."

Allen growled. "Yeah right, why where you holding that knife of yours when you were following me then?"

"A safety measure in case I had misjudged you."

The boy tensed. "In case you had misjudged me?" He whispered. Oh, damn it all, now his fear was also showing in his voice.

"Yes."

Allen hesitated. Misjudged him? Misjudged him to be what? A demon? If that guy believed he was a normal human then maybe he could still escape. "… Why?"

Now it was the man's turn to hesitate. "… What do you know about demons?"

Allen's heart was thundering in his chest. He had no choice but to play along."What do you mean?"

"… If you promise not to run I'll let you go. It's easier to talk that way, okay?"

"Fine." Running wouldn't help anyway. The man was both faster and stronger than him.

As promised, the man released his arm and quickly Allen turned to face him, rubbing his sore wrist in the process. Maybe he had been wrong about this man not having to work a lot. That grip had been painfully powerful.

The man scratched the back of his head. "Now, where to start…"

Allen snorted, all the while quivering on the inside. "How about explaining what the hell you need me for. And don't try to feed me some crap story, there's no way someone like you would be looking for me if whatever the incident was about didn't have anything to do with religion."

The man blinked and then looked slightly embarrassed. Fucker really had planned to lie then. "You would probably have a hard time believing me…"

"Try me."

The man sighed. "Right."

For a moment he stared at his hands before he faced Allen again. "For now you'll just have to take my word that everything I'll be telling you is true. In this world there are creatures called akuma, who live among us and kill in secret. In English 'akuma' means 'demon'. unlike the demons from legends and myths, their existence is an undeniable fact. They are weapons made by a being called the Millennium Earl, who is mankind's greatest enemy and who's goal is to destroy all of humanity."

Allen's eyes widened. For a while he had been wondering about his demonic nature and now this guy might end up giving him some answers. Unintentional maybe, but who cared? With baited breath he listened to the rest of the mans tale. However, as the man proceeded dread started to knot up his insides.

"Akuma are very dangerous, capable of killing someone in a single blow, and unfortunately they are very difficult to find as well, because they look exactly like humans when they wear their disguise, which they nearly always do. Their real forms look like mechanical creatures or monsters, often a mix of both. When they reveal their real forms they also unlock the weapons they use to kill. Unfortunately, they only cast of their disguise when they're about to murder someone. The easiest way to find them is looking for the traces they leave behind when killing. The biggest clue being the lack of a body."

His body was trembling from how tense he was, and Allen couldn't keep the tremble out of his voice when he whispered "You're joking, right?" He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding against one another. God damn it all, if the man knew this much then surely he already suspected Allen. When one person died and the other walked away unharmed it wasn't that hard to figure out who the killer was, right? And his claw had reduced the body to rubble, which certainly could count as 'lack of a body'…

The man looked grim. "I wish I was, but unfortunately that isn't the case."

In a halfhearted attempt to keep up the act Allen asked, "H-how?"

"The weapons they use carry a virus that destroys the flesh and bones, turning it into-"

At that point the stranger noticed his shaking. "… Oh. My apologies, I didn't mean to scare you…"

White hair swished as he shook his head, hating the pity in that voice but at the same time incredibly thankful for the misunderstanding. It allowed him to survive a little longer.

"… Is alright…" He answered, wary eyes locked on his unsuspecting enemy.

The man looked doubtful but continued anyway. "Right… I'll leave out the gruesome details. What you need to know is that an akuma reveals itself when it kills because it always transforms then, making it easy to recognize."

Allen flinched. _Not always. There was one time that I didn't transform…_ In the back of his mind the face of the old man rose to the surface. Angrily he kicked it back down.

In a hasty attempt to distract the man he asked, "So you can only recognize them when they're murdering someone?"

The man's expression turned thoughtful. "Not necessarily… they all carry the mark of a five-pointed star somewhere on their body. They learn to hide it though."

_Right._ Allen thought._ My scar. _he felt as if all escape routes were cut of one by one. He was undeniable one of the demons his guy was talking about. The chances of him talking his way out of this were becoming smaller and smaller. Soon the man would realize and then… Then what? _Then the guy will probably call some demon slayer to get rid of me._

His muscles tensed even more, amplifying the tremors running through him. No. No way he was allowing that. He had made a promise to Mana. He had sworn to keep walking and he _would_. Even if he had to kill for it.

All he could do right now was buy time and hope for an opening.

"I still don't see how this got anything to do with me." He had to remember to thank Mana as soon as he got time to do so properly, cause without his acting exercises he would have never sounded as believable as he did at that moment. And for the so called magic tricks, which allowed him to keep his makeshift dagger ready without being noticed.

The man scratched his cheek. "Ah, yes. Well…" Suddenly he sounded dead serious. "You remember the incident we talked about? We believe you ran into an akuma back then. We want to know how you survived."

"… Ah." _Simple,_ Allen thought. _I survived because_ _I am the akuma._ Not that he would ever tell the guy that. No, in this case he would need to lie, and it had to be good. Too bad he couldn't come up with anything.

…

_Well… shit._

The silence stretched and slowly soured and became uncomfortable. The man sighed. "Please, child, I understand your mistrust, but quit making this difficult. Why won't you tell me?"

"I don't trust you." Such a weak answer was all he had to give. How pitiful.

"Why? Surely its not just me being a member of the church, now is it?" The man looked at him as if trying to read his thoughts. "What is the real reason?"

Again, silence reigned. Finally it was Allen who sighed and broke it, knowing he'd _have _to speak up to keep the man unaware a bit longer. Though it might already be too late for that… His mind was working in overdrive, desperately searching for a reason, no matter how weak. "You haven't even introduced yourself."

The man sounded surprised when he answered. "Oh… my apologies. I hadn't intended to be rude. Though I fail to see how it will increase your trust…"

"it's the usual approach of those that intend harm, so the victim won't have any information to give even if he manages to escape. No introductions, a lot of talk as distraction and a face unreadable because of the dark. You too will have to admit it sounds suspicious." On the inside he was quite pleased with the reply, which didn't turn out as feeble as he had feared.

"Right. Then please allow me to correct myself." The man offered him his hand, the vague outline of his glove barely visible despite the streetlights around the corner. "My name is Gunde Barbro. I'm an exorcist of the Black Order."

Hesitantly Allen mirrored the gesture, tilting his head at the foreign word. "Allen, waif. What is an exorcist?"

Pride strengthened the voice answering him. "An exorcist is an Apostle of God, chosen to destroy akuma and fight to defeat the Earl. We are soldiers in Gods Army."

Gray eyes widened and an ice cold wave of undiluted terror rolled through the boy's mind, freezing his insides.

_I'm fucked._

* * *

'**Gunde' apparently means 'warrior' in Swedish, and 'Barbra' 'stranger'. Whether its true or not, I liked the name and found it fitting.**

**As always, constructive criticism is more than welcome.**

**Hope you enjoyed and see you next time.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: My previous penname was **_**Dreamcatcher-fluffysama.**_** Hopes this deals with any confusion. If you want to know why I changed it: read my profile.**

* * *

_Fuck._

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck._

_I'm dead._

All intentions of keeping his shaking under control flew out of the window as fear ran like a vicious acid through his veins.

A demon hunter. A honest-to-God demon hunter! Damn it all, his guy had been toying with him, waiting for him to run blindly into his trap. Surely he already knew, surely he'd already realized…

His eye flashed to the place where the man had hidden his dagger. Would that be the weapon that would take his life?

"-boy?… Allen? Hey!…"

With a start he realized the exorcist was calling him. Quickly he forced himself to look at the man's face, which seemed almost worried in the darkness.

_Hah, as if._

"Hey, are you alright? You're shaking. Are you cold?"

For a long moment Allen stared at him. Then nodded, not really knowing how else to respond.

He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped and instead tried to make sense of what he was seeing.

The man was taking of his coat.

"… should have thought of that before. Here, you can borrow-"

With a jolt Allen realized this was his chance. In a flash the white haired boy was upon his feet, using the short moment the man's hands were stuck in the sleeves to strike. The jagged glass in his hand bit deeply into the exorcist's throat, glistering with the cold promise of pain in the dim light of the moon.

For a short moment both were frozen in their positions as dark liquid seeped out of the wound towards the ground, staining both gloves and coat with black blotches as the sharp tang of spilled blood filled the air.

Then the man kicked Allen away, which in turn caused the glass to be violently yanked from the damaged flesh. A shaking hand rose to the wound in an attempt to staunch the bleeding as lungs audibly struggled against the red flood that threatened to drown them.

With wide eyes the boy pressed his back against the wall, watching how the man desperately tried to find a way to stop his inevitable demise. He gasped when the man rose to his feet and quickly scrambled away, though it proved to be unnecessary when the man collapsed after just two steps.

Minutes seemed hours as he watched the exorcist's final moments. Then all went silent.

It was over.

In the dark his own breath sounded way too loud. Somewhere in the distance you could hear drunken laughter and people speaking with exited voices, but those sounds did nothing to break the tense silence that hung heavily within the darkness of the alley.

Seconds passed and as the night proceeded as if nothing happened, some of the tension drained from his body to make place for exhaustion. With shaky legs he forced himself to stand up, letting out a shuddering sigh when he realized he really was going to live.

As fast as he could he made his way to the exit, eager to leave this particular nightmare behind.

However, the cold and the fear had drained his energy more than he had thought, making his balance unreliable and his legs unwilling to move. With a tired sigh and still mere meters away from the cooling body he was forced to seek support from a nearby wall.

For a moment his eye wandered back to the corpse. The once proud exorcist was now just a darker spot in the surrounding shadows, though the morning light would solve that in a few hours.

He cursed.

Turning back, he returned to the dead man and grabbed his arm to drag him away. There was no way he could leave him lying around as a big ass fucking clue screaming 'murder'. He stopped however, when he noticed the dark spots on the ground.

For a moment he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him, until he remembered the man's heavy bleeding. He grimaced, knowing the same blood was staining his glove. And he could actually feel the wetness, now he thought about it.

With a huff of frustration he plopped himself down to think, knowing that soon whoever walked this narrow road would find the bloodstains on the ground. Assuming he'd actually manage to get rid of the corpse of course.

And then the police would know.

And after _them_ the demon hunters would know, and _they_ would surely also know what it meant. Or at least they would look more deeply into any research the guy had been doing before his death.

He gritted his teeth. It was just a matter of time before he would be hunted again…

Suddenly his eyes went wide. He couldn't hide the murder, no, but maybe he shouldn't try to. In a city like this people got killed almost every day. Bar brawls, gang fights, robberies, you name it. And though this wasn't one of the truly bad areas, it was still dangerous.

His nose wrinkled in disgust at what he was considering. Surely he hadn't sunken that low yet…

A miserable laugh escaped his cramping throat, closely followed by the first wave of sickness. No, he hadn't sunken that low. He'd already reached a much greater depth when he killed Mana. He shuddered and quickly turned when his stomach decided to empty itself.

When the heaves stopped for a few seconds he clenched his jaw and fought off the next set of cramps. His stomach was twisting and turning and knotting up in extremely painful ways, but he couldn't afford to lose more time. He had stayed here way too long already.

Taking a big gulp of air he steeled himself and returned his attention to the dead exorcist.

It was an immense struggle and took more time than he was comfortable with, but in the end the corpse rested underneath a heap of trash minus his clothes, dagger and a heavy purse. Hopefully the lack of personal belongings would hamper any attempts identification enough, because he really didn't feel like maiming a corpse, no matter how much time it might buy him.

And on a more practical note, this way the police would probably see it as just another violent robbery.

Looking back, deep regret laced his words as he whispered a final apology. Then he heaved the bundle of clothes on his back and left.

In the distance, the grand church bells chimed, their mournful sound echoing through the now empty alley.

XXX(xxxx)XXX(xxxx)XXX(xxxx)XXX

The trip back was dangerous and difficult, reminding him once again of his reasons not to venture out after dark. Really, despite keeping to the roofs as much as he could he still almost ended up with some scum in a dark alley. _Twice._

And both during the maybe ten minutes he had needed to cross a few streets that were too broad to jump. Talk about bad luck.

He muttered curses through his clenched teeth and gladly welcomed every shred of anger. Anything to keep his mind off the dead exorcist.

Over and over he told himself that he'd had no other choice. It didn't matter. He still felt sickened to the bone.

_I'm a murderer. A demon. An _akuma_._

The exorcist would have killed him. One look at his scar, one look at his arm. He would have _died._

_I can't. I promised Mana._

But there was still blood on his glove, and the stolen goods felt like lead on his shoulders. It weighted him down with guilt heavy enough to nearly drag him off the slippery roofs.

_I just want to forget tonight ever happened._

XXX(xxxx)XXX(xxxx)XXX(xxxx)XXX

The light was far brighter than he was used waking to, but at least it chased of the restless images from his nightmares. A watery morning sun shone down on him, making the silver ornaments of the exorcist's coat shine.

He looked at the bundle with bitter distaste. Even now, with the evidence lying next to him, he could barely belief he had murdered someone like that.

It was one thing to kill someone delirious and desperate, or have his claw act on its own. To kill like he had… To strike out in cold blood, to talk to someone and _deciding_ to _get rid of him…_

When? When had he become so awful?

_When I killed Mana on a stranger's command._

Nowadays that voice would appear in his nightmares from time to time. Creaky and cruel and sickeningly _cheerful;_ so filled with glee it was terrifying…

_-"Ah, my dear akuma.~ Go ahead and kill him. That's an order.~"-_

And then his defective arm had turned into that white claw, and it had obeyed. It had torn apart the metal body that contained Mana's soul, forcing him to kill the only person that had ever loved him.

_The exorcist said it was the Earl of the Millennium who made akuma… so I guess I was made by him too._

_I wonder if the one that commanded me was the Earl?_

He recalled piercing eyes behind gleaming glasses, an inhuman smile showing too much teeth, and a grinning moon on a high top hat.

He shivered.

And hated the memories that refused to stay silent. If only they would leave him _alone_…

He felt so confused. Why didn't he know anything? If he was created by him then why didn't the Earl _tell_-

Suddenly the world was whiting out as thousands of searing needles seemed to stab into his left arm. He couldn't even scream from the pain. _It hurts! It hurts! God, why-_

And just as suddenly as it began it was gone, leaving him a shuddering mess of cramping muscles as his scattered mind tried to gather itself.

Blinking, he felt echoes of pain slowly die out.

_W-what happened?_

Shaking, he rose. _What _happened_?_

With trembling fingers he pulled up his sleeve to peer underneath. It was hard to tell since he didn't look at this arm very often, but the veins seemed to be swollen. Prying off his glove he tried to see anything that could explain the pain, but the red skin was as repulsing as ever. Except that around the cross the veins laid like cables upon the skin.

He shivered. _What's going on?_

For a while he waited with baited breath for the pain to return.

But time was slipping through his fingers like water, and he had to leave soon. Before the demon hunters came looking for their missing member.

Shaken and disturbed and feeling incredibly paranoid, he left.

XXX(xxxx)XXX(xxxx)XXX(xxxx)XXX

Landscapes drifted by the window. The bright greens of early spring mixed with beautiful shades of orange and gold as the sun started to set.

Allen scowled at them.

Selling the exorcist's stuff had taken longer than he had anticipated and had earned him less than he had hoped. He was sure that odd little bat-like machine had been worth a lot more, but just because he didn't know what it was the shop owner had refused to pay his price. Asshole.

Absentmindedly he fiddled with the hem of his new jacket. Well, new to him. It was at least second hand but it wasn't that worn and had a nice big hood to hide his hair. That was good enough.

Hiding his scar had been trickier. An eye patch wasn't big enough and too many people had seen him using bandages, so this time he had chosen to use make up. It had felt odd to paint his face again. And he wasn't sure he was happy with how it reminded him of better times.

Though he was lucky to be so pale, otherwise he would have never been able to hide the unnatural whiteness upon his skin with a few smudges. Now he just looked like he hadn't bothered to wash his face after a hard day working.

A faint twinge of pain ran up his arm. A few tense moments later he sighed in relief.

Since he had left he had already suffered through two more pain attacks, one which had lasted almost a full minute and would have left him on the ground if he hadn't already been sitting. As it was he was lucky it only earned him some weird looks and the kind inquiry of a concerned lady.

It was terrifying.

Terrifying how his own body was betraying him. Or maybe it was just the arm. The pain was excruciating and even after it had passed the world kept graying out at odd times.

By now he couldn't really bring himself to feel sorry for the dead exorcist. Obviously that bastard had done something to him, and he was pretty sure it had damaged his arm.

_Whatever it was, he probably did it when he grabbed me._

And now he had no idea what to do. A doctor wouldn't be able to solve it. He could only hope it would get better with time.

With a sigh he picked up his satchel. Another thing he had bought with the exorcist's money. He rummaged through his meager belongings.

_Of course the food is at the bottom. _He thought grumpily.

His hand bumped against metal wrapped in cloth and pure agony crashed through him.

It took everything he had to keep from screaming.

When the pain receded again it took him several heartbeats to get the world back into focus. Several worried faces surrounded him.

"Are you alright, lad?" An middle-aged man asked. He had a fatherly look and thin laugh lines at his eyes.

"Y-yeah… My apologies. I'm alright now." A pleasant smile and a few more reassurances later the small crowd returned to their seats, still shooting him concerned looks from time to time.

It took great effort to keep up a calm appearance, but he couldn't risk suspicion. He had to make sure there wouldn't be even the smallest rumor for the demon hunters left to follow. People had to forget him as quickly as possible.

Careful, he reached back into his bag, searching for that one thing that had seemed to trigger the attack. After a moment he found it.

The exorcist's dagger. The only thing he hadn't sold, because even the blindest child would notice something off about it. It wasn't the appearance. Just… some strange feeling you got when holding it. A weird energy or something.

And because of that he was sure even an experienced fence would be hesitant to accept it. It almost made you think it was cursed.

With a sigh of relief he concluded that he could touch it without suffering another attack. Good. Otherwise even something as simple as sticking his hand in his bag would become risky.

But seriously, what was he going to do? With his ticket he could stay on the train until it reached its final station, but what then? Buy another one? Where should he go? Where _could_ he go, being what he was?

He was an akuma. From what the exorcist said, it wasn't a question _if_ he would kill, but _when._ And as soon as he did another exorcist would come to investigate. For how long would he be able to outrun them? He didn't know _anything_ about them. Except that they were from the church and wanted him dead.

_What should I do, Mana?_

What _could _he do?

He felt so alone. And the feeling was made worse now he knew what it was like to have someone that looked after him.

_Why? Why did I have to become an akuma?_

It hurt. It hurt so much to see kind people worried and _know_ he could never accept their help. Not without killing them in the long run.

Unless they were akuma too.

Which didn't help him a bit. He didn't know how to find or even _recognize_ other akuma. So even if he _did_ run into one, he wouldn't be able to ask for help.

He was _alone_.

And right at that moment he really felt like crying.

XXX(xxxx)XXX(xxxx)XXX(xxxx)XXX

Fear.

Deep, dark and mind numbing.

Coupled with a terrified anticipation that cramped his muscles and made him feel as if every heartbeat pumped freezing acid into his veins as he braced himself for the pain that would surely come.

Every second he expected another pain attack.

It was torture.

One day. It was just _one day _since the attack on the train and the attacks had worsened to the point that they came and went with barely an hour in between _at most_.

He needed help. _Badly._

But there was no one to help him. Maybe the Earl would be able to, but he had no idea how to contact him.

Still, he was trying, because he couldn't keep the attacks hidden anymore. He was too tired to try to keep the screams in. His nerves too frayed to care about the attention it drew.

_If he can make akuma, then surely he can repair them… right?_

So during one of the short moments between attacks he went out and asked anyone, _anyone_ he met if they knew the Millennium Earl.

No one knew.

All it earned him where concerned looks, pity and a lot of disgusted sneers. They all thought he was insane. And he couldn't blame them. Why else would a so obviously poor and ill boy be looking for an _earl?_

Then, another attack wrecked his body and he barely had the strength to drag himself back to the inn where he had taken a room.

And cried.

* * *

**A/N: If anyone is wondering why Allen's memory of that night in the graveyard seems to vary through time; just remember that Allen wants to **_**forget. **_**It hurts him a lot to remember and the only reason he **_**does **_**is because the nightmares keep reminding him. Which is why quite a lot of important details escape his notice.**

**In canon, at this point he wasn't even functioning on his own. Just read the bonus manga 'Maria's Gaze' (volume 23). There it took him**_**all winter**_**before he started responding to **_**anything**_**. Even Cross' temper tantrums couldn't drag him out of it.**** And seeing how he turned a table into firewood right in front of him, that says **_**a lot**_**.**

**The only reason he's up and moving in this story is because otherwise he'd **_**die**_**. And that would be **_**boring**_**. Very dramatic and pitiful and maybe even a good oneshot. But very boring in the long run.  
**


End file.
